


Queen Investigations

by bushlaboo



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Enemies to Friends to Mutual Pining, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bushlaboo/pseuds/bushlaboo
Summary: Felicity Smoak is a talented private detective whose potential clients kept refusing to hire a woman, no matter how qualified. To solve the problem, she invented a fictitious male superior: Oliver Queen and opened Queen Investigations. Now her only problem is the seemingly nameless and handsome former con who has assumed the identity she's created, insisting on inhabiting the fake life she constructed and aiding her in her cases. Aka aRemington Steeleinspired snippet AU.





	Queen Investigations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatmasquedgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/gifts).



> Three years ago in a comment to Masque's epic and brilliant [Technical Assistance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1359190), I gushed: “OMG! You're amazing. Awesome. Seriously, I love you. Marry me and have my babies.” I proceeded to embarrass myself by rambling on, “Erm, I have the wrong parts for that, so scratch that; but I do worship at your feet…” in spite of that (or maybe because of it) Masque accepted my internet marriage proposal and has been a beloved wifey since. In honor of our anniversary and just because she’s tremendous and wonderful, I present anniversary fic. Hope you enjoy. Love you, wifey!
> 
> Hugs & cookies to Queen Beta Becky for giving this the once over and biting back her VBA spidy-senses. Not sure if I am sad to say or not, but prestigiously still appears in the story below. And special thanks to Lexi for making this fic a lovely banner. You're the bee's knees.
> 
> __  
> 

Through, around, over – Felicity Smoak was good at finding ways to make things happen. Being a genius, a tenacious one at that, helped her achieve any goal she set for herself. She’d worked hard to mold herself into a uniquely talented investigator, but despite all her efforts the outside world looked at her and saw a petite blonde with a penchant for bright colors and a brain-to-mouth filter that often left her flushing with embarrassment.

Her short, curvy statute didn’t come across physically intimidating though she was trained (by a former Army Master Sergeant thank you very much!) to handle herself and firearms. Her age, younger by more than half of her targeted clientele, made them think her inexperienced. When the truth was Felicity had been problem solving since practically the day she was born and working to solve mysteries since she was seven. Her first case, and the only one she failed to resolve, was finding her father after he abandoned her and her mother.

Felicity could accept that she was not what most people imagined when they thought of a PI, but she hadn’t exactly run across a Sam Spade type in all her years of training either. What should matter to her prospective clients was that she had all the skills a good investigator needed. She was a wiz at research, critical thinking and problem solving. She had excellent observational skills, knowledge of law and psychology (not to mention a head full of facts in regards to just about everything because she loved to learn), and exceptional technological knowhow -- she was particularly adept at hacking -- not that she advertised that skill. On top of that she had a personal philosophy, because they bugged her, that mysteries needed to be solved.

When it became clear to Felicity that her all-star credentials weren’t enough for the chauvinistic elitists who were in desperate need of her services she found her around. Oliver Queen, an identity she crafted specifically to fulfill that idealized noir stereotype of a private investigator. Mr. Queen, as Felicity thought of him, was a 30 odd year-old man (as to be experienced but not too old) with a reputation of straddling the line when it came to being above board, though fully licensed and accredited. He owned a small building in the transitioning, up and coming Glades section of Starling City. The 6200 hundred square foot, 2 story brick building was split into 3100 square feet a floor and was newly renovated – a slick and glossy detective’s office made up the main level; while a high-end condo, which served as Mr. Queen’s home, resided above it.

Oliver Queen paid taxes, had a business, a social security number, a couple of bank accounts and even made monthly donations to the ASPCA. The only things Felicity hadn’t thought generate were picture IDs and a medical history. At the time it seemed a step too far. Given the 6’1 wall of muscle, dubious charm and definite hotness that invaded her life six months after she got Queen Investigations started, it was an oversight she’d curse herself for.

 

* * *

 

It was an honest to goodness accident. Well his action, answering the page for Oliver Queen, had been deliberate. A desperate gamble to throw off the lethal (Lawton had earned his nickname Deadshot after all) and crazy (why did that always seem to be the case with gorgeous redheads?) combo who’d been after the same jewels he meant to possess. Gems he would learn that Queen Investigations had been hired to protect. Felicity still held stubbornly to the belief he’d known that going in. Not that he blamed her. Not with his history and given the fact that he took over her con.

Felicity was liable to box his ears if she even suspected that he thought her creation of Oliver Queen as a confidence game. In the three months he’d known her they’d gone around and around on that matter with scathing loud remarks about scam artists which the feisty Miss Smoak was definitely not. Nor was she a fan of words like liar or manipulator. Terms he only bandied about when he wanted to work her into a fit of pique. There was something decidedly dangerous and delicious, not to mention downright irresistible, about an irritated Felicity Smoak.

In truth, he admired the audacity of her _business plan_ and the sheer thoroughness of it. Until his arrival all Oliver Queen had been lacking was physical form. Now, thanks to him, he had it.

Though thanking him was the furthest thing from Felicity’s mind, Oliver knew. To her he was an annoyance and hindrance, even when he was being useful on their cases, because as far as Felicity was concerned they were meant to be just **her** cases. Oliver Queen was a façade she built to be able to perform the work she loved and was prestigiously good at; he was just the lucky bastard who’d realized the man was a fake and commandeered the perks of his life.

He was certain Felicity wouldn’t believe him if he told her the biggest plus of being Oliver Queen, the finest role any con could hope to play, was her. He’d met a lot of colorful people in his dodgy profession, a number of them very appealing in countless ways, but none of them had a mind like Felicity Smoak. Very little, if anything, surprised Oliver anymore but without fail Felicity did. Whether it was a leap in logic or an unanticipated reaction, he never knew quite what to expect from his reluctant partner.

The fact that her beauty nearly lived up to her brains didn’t hurt either.

Add that in with the ability to use his various skill sets without having to worry about drawing the attention of the thin blue line and well this life was just about paradise.

Oliver felt the sharp bite of Felicity’s heel dig into his foot forcing his full attention back to their client meeting and the voluptuous raven haired woman sitting across the conference room table from them. Helena Bertinelli, only child of Frank Bertinelli, a mover and shaker in the real estate development world around Starling – there was a giant Bertinelli Construction sign on the apartment complex rehab three streets over from their office. It was also rumored that Bertinelli was the head of the local Italian mob. Being a betting man, Oliver would put money on finding Helena’s missing fiancée wearing a pair of cement boots. Or was that even too cliché for the mob now?

Either way Oliver couldn’t see any advantage to taking the case. Felicity being a known entity to man like Frank Bertinelli was unsettling enough, but her getting on his bad side (which was a given seeing how her digging around in the disappearance of Michael Staton would foster actual results unlike the boys in blues) left him cold. Though she’d hate it for a whole list of reasons, chief among them that she didn’t need (debatable) or want protection, Oliver decided to put on his _dis_ -charm offensive. Not that his partner was willing to see the difference. In fact, Felicity seemed entirely immune to his actual charm and would on occasion - when she felt it warranted - tartly refer to him as Charm Boy. In those moments even he couldn’t find a way to twist the moniker into a term of endearment.

Much to his relief the nickname stayed unsaid and Oliver was saved from the wrath of Felicity Smoak, something smart men knew to fear, because she was too busy not trying to hide her amusement at his drenched state as Helena Bertinelli stormed out their conference room muttering about his gall. There was a time when wooing a woman like Helena, no matter the circumstances, appealed to him – job or no job.  Now though, Oliver was just grateful that she’d taken the offer of unsweetened iced tea over hot coffee. He’d been resigned to ending up with brown liquid seeping into his crisp white dress shirt when he set out to offend her. And he much preferred the shock of icy cold over a hot burn any day, even if the fall air had turned crisp on its way into winter, as most of Helena’s drink hit him square in the face.

A familiar dark haired head popped into the doorway. Felicity’s office boy, as Roy never did a damn thing Oliver ordered unless there was an actual client around – the kid’s so called form of protest since he knew Oliver to be a fraud, gave him a brief look approval (evidently they were on the same page when came to keeping Felicity away from the Bertinellis) before sneering at him. “Smooth,” he remarked drily. “Very smooth.” Even his snark could not hide the fact that his lanky form showed discomfort being sans the ratty red hoodie he always wore save for in the office. Felicity insisted on a business casual look for Roy here and had even taken him shopping for slacks and dress shirts, which explained the short sleeved lavender button down he was wearing.

Felicity’s laughter started anew at the comment, but his bedraggled state must have softened her a bit because she asked Roy to fetch him some paper towels. Oliver was treated to a scowl before Roy shuffled off.

His partner fought back her chuckles as she patted the dry spot on his shoulder and offered him the good natured reminder that, “At least a change of clothes isn’t far.”

Oliver considered explaining himself as Felicity pushed away from the reclaimed wood table even though he knew she wouldn’t be pleased about him making a decision for her. In fact, he wouldn’t put it pass Felicity to reach out and convince Helena to let her take the case on just to spite him. Still he didn’t like the idea of her thinking he was actually interested in their prospective client either. Felicity managed to astonish him again when she said, “Nice brush off by the way,” as she stood.

Her silk blouse clad back was too him, so she missed him gaping at her for second. By the time she turned around Oliver managed to put a neutral, if not amused, look on his face. “I feel for her,” that Felicity felt that way had been clear to Oliver throughout their meeting; “but there’s no way I’m letting her father use us both to get to her fiancée.”

For an ex-con man, well an attempting to reform one anyway, he certainly gave away a lot when it came to Felicity Smoak. He wasn’t sure what had been his tell, but he knew Felicity read it when she tsked, “Oliver,” as she beamed down at him with a cat that ate the canary smile. “Michael Staton isn’t doing anything as banal as sleeping with the fishes.”

Oliver knew then what Felicity managed to uncover in the twenty-four hours between the time Helena called to set up her appointment and showing up this afternoon. “Hacking WITSEC now Miss Smoak? I’m impressed.” If she’d taken his move to chase Helena from their office as an act of unneeded chivalry Oliver knew she would have countered with a snippy ‘Doesn’t seem to take much’ but the quip remained unsaid. Instead Felicity accepted the compliment and he found the way she preened at it without realizing delightful.

Roy groaning, “Ridiculous,” broke the moment. Felicity’s cheeks flushed and she hurried out of the room – Roy launched the roll of towels at him just as she brushed by him in the doorway. Oliver managed a one hand catch of the towels as he felt the boy’s icy gaze narrow in on him once they were alone. “Remember, I’m watching you _Queen_ ,” he warned puffing out his chest.

Oliver scoffed, not because Roy had read his interest wrong, but because he knew it would aggravate him. On a huff, Roy turned, leaving him to dry off in quiet. While he was doing so, Oliver decided he liked the kid better when Roy pretended not to be paying him any attention.

 

* * *

 

Being surrounded by the elite of Starling always put Felicity on edge, but Oliver managed the set – hell any set – like he belonged. Given his prior work she was certain learning to fit in anywhere as if it was his natural habitat was a requirement. Her attire did not help her unease. The gold lace cocktail dress was the shortest outfit Felicity owned and was not something she’d picked out for herself. The stunningly risqué dress had been a Hanukkah gift from her mother and it was Donna Smoak’s style down to the small slit that rested high on her left thigh. The sparking ensemble was suited more for an evening at a nightclub and not for the annual Starling City Cancer Society Gala, but it had served as a distraction for Oliver as Felicity intended. She would deny it until she was blue in the face, but his gaze of appreciation when he first caught sight of her caused Felicity’s heart to flutter.

Oliver in a dark fitted suit had done other things to her, but Felicity pushed that aside because her intentions for the night included keeping him from doing something rash in their attempt to capture Winnick Norton. Catching the thief known as the Dodger who had a taste for jewels from the Ominous Decade was a personal quest for him. Beyond Oliver’s distaste, which Felicity whole heartily shared, for the burglar’s tactics – forcing others to steal for him – Norton’s swing through Starling had bodies piling up. One of the deceased was Cass Derenick, a fence Oliver had a _complicated_ (as he phrased it) history with. Given Norton’s use of a stun baton and bomb collars on his victims, Felicity wanted to be careful in their approach to the villain if their bid to draw him out was successful.

Her appeal to Walter Steele to make a last-minute donation to the Gala’s silent auction had caught the attention of the joint SCPD and Interpol task force, making Felicity hopeful that they’d baited their trap well.  She wished, however, Walter would have listened to her suggestion to steer clear of the event. Felicity didn’t like the idea of her early champion, Walter had been one of the very few to look beyond her appearance and youth and see her talent and hired her to help track down a $2.6 million-dollar variance in his wife’s company’s finances when he’d been the CFO, being in harm’s way. Her findings led to fair amount of contention between the couple, they’d briefly separated and Walter resigned from Merlyn Gloabl and taken a position at Starling National Bank. That had come in handy a few months later when Felicity came up with her Oliver Queen plan. Knowing the prejudices she’d faced, as well as, being extremely grateful for arranging for her good friend and sparring partner John Diggle to serve as a bodyguard for his wayward stepdaughter Thea; Walter had been willing to help her by bending a few rules to setup the personal and business accounts for her alter ego.

Since Walter insisted as serving as the Merlyn family representative for the evening she was grateful at least that he had the sense to bring Diggle along with him. Oliver had been less thrilled by their appearance, even though he owed Walter his gratitude, as both men knew his fraudulent status and neither man approved him. Felicity knew for a fact that Dig had tried to intimidate Oliver out her life after Walter’s appeal to his pocketbook failed. She had appreciated the sentiment behind their actions, but also found them a bit high handed. She was a capable adult, fully able to handle whatever obstacles life threw at her. If anyone was going to get Oliver out her life it was going to be her … of course as the months went on her active attempts of getting him to leave had tapered off. For as aggravating as Oliver could be – seriously insisting that he didn’t have a name of his own was beyond absurd – he’d also been surprisingly useful.

And when he wasn’t driving her crazy, Oliver was actually good company. Very attractive company. Contemplating the exact shade of blue Oliver’s eyes were or just exactly how his scruff would feel against the sensitive skin her neck had become a pleasant distraction for Felicity.

She felt his presence behind her before his rich, smooth voice brushed across her ear. His muscular form radiated with heat and smelled pleasantly of the woodsy cologne he favored. “Dance with me Smoak?”

“I never thought Mr. Queen would be a dancer,” she teased with a coy smile as she looked up at him over her shoulder.

He beamed indulgently down at her; his dimple flashing behind is perfectly tailored facial hair. “Good thing then I decided otherwise,” Oliver replied as he offered her his hand. When she didn’t immediately respond to his offer, he pouted before his eyes flashed a challenge at her. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”

Felicity threw her head back, her golden curls bouncing, as she let out a laugh. “Of you, never. Your big feet on the other hand …”

“I promise not to step on your toes,” he replied. Felicity knew she could make a remark about how it was too late for that, he’d been metaphorically stomping on her toes for months, but remembering her mission to keep him out of trouble she relented.

“You better not,” she said with a sharp poke to his chest, just above his heart, before accepting his hand and allowing Oliver to escort to the dance floor. The music was a gentle sway, played loud enough for those on the dance floor to keep rhythm (if they had any) while not drowning out the ability of the clustered groups around it from chatting. For the first half minute Felicity used their glide across the parquet to scan the crowd for the Dodger, but as Oliver pulled her closer into his body she found herself relaxing into arms and losing herself to his closeness.

Felicity didn’t notice when the music changed the first time or even the second. It wasn’t until she caught sight of Diggle frowning, his dark eyes meeting hers and seeming to say ‘you two are looking a bit familiar there,’ with concern that she snapped out of fugue-like contented state.

“Felicity?” Oliver said her name in that special way he seemingly had just for her. Low, soft and imbued with something like longing.

She was saved from examining her emotions and Oliver’s by catching sight of their prey. “He’s here,” she whispered.

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance's dislike of him was not Oliver's fault. Technically. Queen Investigations had been nosing in on the police detective's cases for months before he assumed his mantle as head of the company. The truth of matter was Lance hated Felicity for that early interference, not that man knew it; because the policeman had a soft spot for his partner. Felicity had that effect on most people - Oliver could only think of a handful, Moira Merlyn-Steele chief of among them, who actively disliked Felicity.

His ingenious Girl Wednesday, and oh how Felicity hated that moniker when he let it fly a month into their association, though Oliver had never been sure if it was the implication that she was _his_ girl or that he’d purposely made an incorrect (they'd met on a Wednesday) movie reference; was the reason Lance was so gleeful about having him in the interrogation room. Any crime would have done, Oliver imagined jaywalking would have been enough for the detective's full handcuff and Miranda warning bit, but Lance had him on more serious charge: murder.

For once he could claim innocence. He'd broken a number of laws over the years, but in this case he was not guilty. No matter what the evidence might say. Oliver doubted that Lance would buy that he was being framed for murder. Honestly it was hard to blame him; he'd taken entirely too much joy in irritating the officer for that. Now the tables were turned and Lance couldn’t quite contain his zeal.

Felicity, at least, had his back. And based on the nervous way she was twisting the chain of her necklace Oliver thought her concern was for _him_ and not what could happen to their company if he was convicted. “There’s nothing I can say that you would believe Detective,” he replied in lieu of answering Lance’s very pointed question. “So, I'll take a polygraph.”

“Oliver,” Felicity hissed from beside him, her sharp gaze shifting from the Lance and the ADA in the room to him. Her blue eyes were frantic and screaming at him all the reasons that taking a poly was bad idea. **Epically bad**.

“Polygraphs are inadmissible,” ADA Spencer admonished obviously displeased by his suggestion. The middle-aged redhead had come in good cop to Lance’s bad talking deal.

“In front of a jury,” he acquiesced, “but it’s not for them. It’s for him,” Oliver said with a nod towards Lance. “He’s the one I need to convince.”

Before either official could reply Felicity leaned in over the table, cool reserve had replaced her panic. “We’re gonna need a minute.”

“You’re not actually counsel Miss Smoak,” the ADA reminded her.

“I want that polygraph,” Lance interjected. “If you think you can actually talk him out of something you have fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t hold my breath if were you though,” he uttered as he got to his feet. Frustration marred Spencer’s face, making her soft features hard, but she didn’t fight Lance on the poly or giving them the room.

“Ears,” he murmured as the door closed behind them, reminding Felicity that the police were allowed to listen in on their conversation.

“I’m not an idiot,” Felicity whispered shouted at him with a roll of eyes. “You, however—”

“Know exactly what I’m doing,” he swore.

“Says the man who’s handcuffed to a table. _Oliver_ ,” she stressed his name, concern rolling off her in waves, “this is dangerous.” Felicity bit her lip a moment as she waited for his response. When he didn’t reply she mouthed, “For both of us.”

“I’ve got this Felicity,” he reassured her. Oliver reached out his hands as much as he could, trying to capture one of hers. Seeing the appeal Felicity slid her right hand over and allowed him to clasp it between his. His assertion hadn’t eased her apprehension.

Though Oliver was a big believer in not asking questions he didn’t already know the answer to, he queried, “Do you trust me Felicity?”

She let out a watery laugh. “Against my better my better judgement I do.” Felicity dropped her head to his shoulder after making her admission, missing his pleased smile. Oliver kissed the top of her head; in response Felicity squeezed his hand – tight, her Mermaid Shimmer, some blue-green shade with a hint of glimmering gold, nails standing out in stark contrast against his skin. “Don’t make me regret this,” she said into his shoulder. The unique scent that was Felicity - that fresh, pure aroma that hung in the air after a summer rain mixed with a mellow honeyed sweetness - engulfed him. Settled him.

“Promise,” he said resting his cheek on her head. They sat like that, in comfortable quiet, until the door swung open and they jumped apart. Felicity’s cheeks were flushed, but she managed to maintain a neutral look while Lance entered with the examiner.

It only took a few minutes to setup the machine and get Oliver attached to it. Once Lance got the go-head nod, he started his questioning. “ls your name Oliver Queen?”

“You don't know who I am, detective?” he asked with a wry grin.

Lance scowled at him as the examiner explained, “The questions calibrate the polygraph.”

“Is your name Oliver Queen?” the detective repeated.

“Yes,” he answered without any hesitation.

“Were you born in Los Angeles, California on May 16th?”

Again he replied swiftly without any caution, “Yes.”

“Is your hair blue?”  

Oliver had to bite back a flippant response, though he allowed himself to smirk when he responded, “No.”

Lance proceeded with a rapid fire round of questions, throwing out obscure little questions about their previous clashes and crimes he thought lay at his feet. Oliver answered all them appropriately: Yes, he’d been to the Exchange Building. No, he hadn’t been involved with Adam Hunt. So on and so on, until Lance asked out right, “Have you killed anyone?”

“Yes,” he replied startling everyone in the room. Felicity paled, while Lance seemed perplexed as to whether he should be celebrating trapping him or wary that he’d somehow fallen into one. For Oliver, the memory of Anatoly stung. The older Russian had taken him under his wing and taught him a few things at a time when he was convinced that knew everything.  His voice was thick with emotion as he clarified his answer. “The night I didn’t confiscate my friend’s keys. I knew he was drunk, hell I was plastered myself, but that’s _not_ an excuse. I should have taken his keys, but I didn’t and he ended up wrapping his car around a telephone pole. I killed him.”

“No you didn’t,” Felicity said rubbing his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.

Lance harrumphed as the examiner stated, “I'd have to study the data, but just eyeballing it, he's telling the truth.”

“Can I assume you'll be recommending Ms. Spencer to drop all charges against Oliver?” Felicity asked, the disdain in her tone indicating that she was done playing nice with Lance about this.

“No,” the detective replied. “I know a guilty man when I see one and he _is_ guilty. Whether you can see it or not.”

 

* * *

 

 “I rather enjoyed being a Peppler,” Oliver remarked as he slid the wedding band from his finger. His suit was rumbled from their long evening of putting together who’d been behind the attempts on Adam Donner’s life. As a successful divorce attorney there had been a lot of suspects. “It’s a shame about the divorce,” he continued as his sparkling blue eyes caught hers. “They were so good together, those two.”

If only divorce was as simple as removing a ring. Well the end of a fake marriage was that effortless, though the emotional complexity of ending Laura and Robert Peppler’s relationship felt just as messy to her. Oliver, as Robert, had loved to throw around the word wife. _My wife_ , to be exact, to which Felicity always had to reply, “Soon to be ex,” during their charade in hopes of ensnaring the attention of the would-be murderer.

The ruse had led them to a cabal of bitter divorcées led by Donner’s wife, Loretta, and had them consuming a surprisingly large amount of alcohol. Felicity was still a little bitter that Oliver had been the one to take around bottles of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild – red wine was a favorite of hers and that particular vintner and year was on her bucket list to try – that hadn’t been poisoned with which to test their suspect pool.

The various failed attempts: car tampering, arson, poison, and sniper; was ultimately what clued them in on the Murder on the Orient Express likeness their case had. When Oliver had assembled the suspects at Donner’s house the last piece of the puzzle, how the women had gotten past the guard dogs, fell into place. Loretta had been behind and aided all of the attempts; resentful of all she’d sacrificed for Adam’s career and at not being thought of or consulted when he decided to leave his high earning practice to go to work for peanuts at the public defender’s office.

All that was left to do to close the case was remove the rings from her left hand so that they could be returned to the jeweler Oliver sweet talked into letting them borrow. It had only been a few days, but Felicity found herself used to the extra weight on her hand. Logically, she knew she was being ridiculous. She wasn’t married. She wasn’t even in a relationship, even though their fighting, bantering and gazing at each other certainly made it feel like she was involved in one.

Felicity had come to accept Oliver as her partner. Her _very_ platonic partner because anything else was unthinkable.

Still she couldn’t help but sigh, as she worked the 3-carat engagement ring and wedding band from her finger. They clinked together in her grasp before she set them gently into Oliver’s waiting palm. “They were, weren't they?” she agreed with a forlorn smile.


End file.
